Winter has officially arrived in Southwest Colorado. Snow has tucked itself around the house like a giant white comforter, and I admire it from the warm safety of my bed. My very first thought, of course, is of my fire-breathing dragon currently on stall rest in the barn. Frodo—my oversized class clown of an Andalusian—managed to injure his sesamoid ligament out in his paddock.

The vet’s orders? Six-plus months of stall rest and daily walking. Perfect instructions for a horse whose idea of “walking” usually involves interpretive dance, leaps, and optional flamenco flair. My rehab routine is to walk him 30 to 45 minutes a day while gradually adding a little trot. Meanwhile, I’m trying to manifest a vision of calm, controlled healing instead of a hot, injured horse skidding across a winter wonderland like Bambi on ice.

The vet prescribed Ace to use as needed, but I’m hoping not to rely on it due to the potential side effects… particularly the ones involving his masculinity. I tried Quietex with mediocre results. Maybe next I’ll drop another hundred dollars on something like StressLess. Rehab: where the dollars disappear faster than a loose horse at feeding time.

All my horses understand both positive reinforcement and pressure-and-release, but so far pressure-and-release hasn’t been enough to contain the dragon within. Today’s plan: a scoop of Quietex and a 30-minute session of positive reinforcement. Surely that will be enough to keep all four hooves on the ground. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

I bundle myself up in my knee-long down jacket, goggles, and tall insulated Ariat boots—basically the equestrian version of a full snowsuit. A drop of Clary Sage might help calm both him and me. I inhale deeply, give myself a mental pep talk, and step out the door.

At his stall, Frodo looks at me with wide, expectant eyes, as if to say, “What’s today’s adventure?” For four months now, I’ve taken him out once or twice a day, and he never forgets his morning ritual. He must do his ceremonial roll in the round pen. It’s law.

I lead him to the pen, picking my steps carefully through four inches of snow. The ground is a little slick, but manageable—at least until Frodo is added to the equation. It takes him about three seconds to flop down and start making horse snow angels. After a few enthusiastic rolls, he leaps up and gives a thunderous full-body shake, like a dog after a bath, sending snow in all directions. He surveys the transformed world with awe, ready—no doubt—to express his feelings through aerial maneuvers. I allow him a moment to take it in, but not long enough for any “fun ideas” to bloom.

Before we begin our official walk, we return to the barn so I can assess his mood. He jigs and tosses his head playfully, immediately slipping a bit in the snow. My heart jumps. The what-ifs swarm like gnats. Fortunately, I prepped a hay net on the trailer, the equine equivalent of turning on a cartoon for a toddler while you think through your life choices.

I test the snow myself—slick, but not terrible. The real danger is Frodo’s imagination. It’s been a while since I’ve done a full clicker-training session, and today feels like the perfect day to bring out the big tools.

I fill my treat pouch with timothy cubes and, wearing gloves just capable enough for treat retrieval, begin in his calm-default position. I hold my wrist—his cue for “stand quietly”—and count backwards. He remembers immediately, lowers his head, and stands still. Lovely. Magical. A small miracle.

“Good—3, 2, 1,” I say, three times. Click and treat.

Then I cue him to walk on, stepping forward with my inside foot and signaling with the lead. We start with five-second intervals. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1… whoa.” Click and treat. Gradually we move to ten seconds, then fifteen, adjusting anytime I feel his internal dragon poke its head out.

We walk over poles, counting backwards like it’s both of our new religion. In the arena, he decides another roll is absolutely necessary, and I let him. Anything for peace. I don’t dare trot him; four months of stall rest is enough of a ticking time bomb without adding speed and snow to the mix.

At one point he tries to jump the gun, stepping forward before I do. I ask him to whoa and stay, rewarding rapidly for the behavior I want. Once we’re back in sync, we return to shorter countdowns until he’s focused and relaxed. We make it back to the barn without any acrobatics or unplanned slip-n-slides. I give him his end-of-session signal and exhale a deep, relieved sigh.

Positive reinforcement is just one more tool in the horse-training toolbox—an important one. The trick is to be systematic, consistent, and careful not to create a food monster. 👹Please reach out to me if you need help with any equine challenges!